


Dusk Till Dawn (Or Brunch)

by Jetsun1119



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Manhattan, Platonic Cuddling, sad!zayn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:29:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24804703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jetsun1119/pseuds/Jetsun1119
Summary: Sometimes the only way Zayn could find himself was to lose himself in the bright lights and pounding music of an anonymous club...
Kudos: 1





	Dusk Till Dawn (Or Brunch)

Tonight was one of those nights that Zayn found himself at a random club alone, dancing with random strangers. There was something freeing about it; sometimes it felt like the only way to find himself was to lose himself in the flashing lights and loud music, pulsing through his veins in time with his heartbeat until it was the only thing in his head. The DJ was good tonight and he danced until he was covered in sweat, so hot he felt like he might just combust.  
Breathless, he headed to the bar, sliding onto the first available stool. He looked over at the stool next to him to see was a slight figure in a dark hoodie, several full cocktails in front of her. She turned around to face him as he sat down and he felt abruptly as though the wind had been knocked out of him.  
Ice blonde hair framed a pointed white face, so white that in the harsh lights of the club she looked as though she was glowing with an almost otherworldly light. Her high cheekbones, delicate features and pointed chin gave her an elfin look that was endearing and mischievous. But it was her eyes that really took his breath away; he didn’t think he’d ever seen eyes such a clear, bright turquoise color, like two glowing topazes set into her face.   
She smiled and the sparkle in her eyes reminded him almost painfully of Louis. “Can I offer you a drink?”  
“M not looking to pull,” he said.  
“And I’m not looking to be pulled,” she returned. “But I have been bought enough drinks here to drink myself under the table and I’d really rather not do that tonight.” She pushed an orange cocktail, garnished with a cherry toward him. “Won’t you have a Manhattan in Manhattan?” she said playfully.  
He couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his lips and he accepted the drink. “What do you do with all the poor blokes who buy you drinks?”  
She shrugged. “I always warn them that I’m not going home with anyone, but they buy them anyways and then I just give them away to other people. Don’t want to waste free cocktails, but sometimes it gets a little out of hand. I don’t want to get smashed.”  
“So what do you want to do?” he asked, genuinely curious. “Why do you come here if you don’t want to drink or hook up?”  
She shrugged a bit, sipping slowly on a lemon sour. “I like to sit here and watch people. It’s peaceful.” She looked at him sideways under her lashes. “I don’t know if that makes sense, but sometimes I just need the noise to drown out everything in my head, y’know? Like, the louder it is, the less I can hear myself thinking, and then it just gets quieter inside.”  
“Makes perfect sense,” he said. “I do the same sometimes.”  
“You live around here?”  
He found his lips quirking up again. “Are you asking me if I come here often?”  
“I guess I am,” she laughed. “I do, but I’ve never seen you here before.”  
“Just moved here recently, so I’ve been checking out the nightlife. Manhattan has some sick nightlife.”  
She shrugged. “I dunno, I can’t get in most places cuz I don’t have a fake ID. I come here because they don’t card at the door, and I never buy my own drinks anyhow so it works for me.”  
Zayn had a momentary mini heart attack thinking she was under 18 before he remembered that the drinking age in America was 21. “So you just sit at the bar and wait for guys to buy you drinks?”  
“Maybe?” she said with a guilty smile. “I do warn them that I’m not going to go anywhere but they all think they can convince me. Once I had a guy who was so mad that he demanded his drink back when I turned down for like, the tenth time.”  
“What did you do?”  
“I asked him if he’d rather I throw it up or pee it out. He wasn’t super happy with me.” She laughed happily, a silvery bell-like sound that matched her ethereal looks perfectly, and Zayn found himself laughing as well, more at her sheer delight than at the story itself.   
“You’re something else,” he said, shaking his head. “What’s your name?”  
“You can call me Jasmine.”  
“Is that your name?”  
“No,” she admitted candidly. “But I’ve always wished it was.”  
He laughed again; he couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed so much “Your wish is my command, Princess,” he said with as much of a bow as he could manage on the stool. “What else do you wish?”  
“Will you dance with me?”  
He was surprised. “I thought you just like to watch.”  
“It looks like fun,” she said, “And nobody ever asks me to dance. They just buy me drinks.” She looked rather mournfully at the array of glasses in front of her.  
He got off the stool and offered her a hand. “That is tragic. I’m sure you’re a marvelous dancer. C’mere.”  
She giggled and let him lead her onto the packed floor. Zayn wasn’t much of a dancer, he usually just let himself be shuffled around, enjoying the feeling of anonymity, letting his partners take the lead. But Jasmine- or whatever her name really was- really was a marvelous dancer.  
He was out of breath after five minutes of trying to keep with her energy and eventually settled on just watching her shimmy and twirl, looking childishly delighted and completely in her own world.  
Finally she dragged him back to the bar and reclaimed their stools, flushed and sweaty.  
“You never told me your name,” she said, pushing a martini towards him.   
He looked at her over the rim of the glass. “You can call me Z,” he said with a smug grin.  
She returned the smile, acknowledging his joke with a raised eyebrow and finished off the lemon sour she’d been nursing. “Wanna come back to mine?” she offered suddenly.  
He blinked, taken aback. “I thought you weren’t looking to pull?”  
“Not like that!” she laughed. “Jeez. Like friends. Just come back so we can have some quiet. I’ll make us hot chocolate and cheese toasties and you can smoke on my balcony.”  
Zayn had to admit that the idea was nicer than going back to his cold, too-big loft, and he was itching for a fag. “How did you know I smoke?” he asked.  
“You look like you smoke,” she said vaguely. “And you’re wearing a leather jacket. Leather traps the smell of smoke.”   
“Maybe my flatmate smokes,” he challenged.   
She dimpled mischievously. “Also you have a cigarette behind your ear,” she whispered. “And I can see the lighter in your pocket.”  
“I concede,” he laughed sheepishly. “Very good, Sherlock.”  
“Really, elementary my dear Watson.” She hopped off the stool. “Coming?”  
It wasn’t really much of a decision. “Yeah.”   
She flashed a smile over her shoulder at him and grabbed his hand, pulling him through the densely packed dance floor until they reached the exit.   
“Night, Charlie!” she called to the bouncer who waved, looking surprised to see her hand-in-hand with Zayn.   
The cool night air felt good after the heat of the club and Zayn found himself marveling at how alive New York City always seemed, even at night.  
It was only a few short blocks to her building which they walked in comfortable silence. She walked much faster than Zayn would have expected, given her petite frame and he had to hurry to keep up with her.  
After a quick hello to the doorman she led him to the elevator and they rode up to the 20th floor, and down a short hallway until they reached Apartment 20F. As she fumbled with the key in the lock, he saw a faded nameplate on the door- Z Ward.  
“Home sweet home,” she announced, pushing the door open and flipping on the light.  
It was small, like most Manhattan apartments, just a kitchenette and narrow living area, and a short hallway with three closed doors. The whole apartment was decorated almost haphazardly, all bright colors that somehow managed not to clash and soft, inviting looking cushions. He couldn’t help but mentally compare it to his own sleek, minimalistic, sterile feeling flat. Maybe he should get her to decorate for him.  
“What does Z stand for, Miss Ward?” he asked confidently.  
She turned around, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Why’d you call me that?”  
His confidence faded a bit and he pointed toward the door. “Isn’t that your name? It’s on the door.”  
She laughed. “Oh, no, that’s my apartment mate, Zhavia. The apartment is rented under her name, so that’s why it’s on the door. But she’s in LA now, she’s in a singing competition.”  
“Yeah?” he asked, his interest piqued. “X-Factor?”  
“No, it’s a new show, it’s called the Four,” she said. “It’s a really cool opportunity for her. Do you want a toastie?”  
“Sure.” He leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, suddenly feeling awkward as she began to bustle around the kitchen, pulling out the bread and cheese. “Can I help you?”  
“Nah, I’m good.” She glanced over at him. “You can sit for the same price, y’know?”  
He smiled sheepishly and perched on one of the barstools. “Your flatmate, is she any good?”  
She shrugged, putting the sandwiches in the toaster. “I think she’s good, but I’m not really a judge of that, I think most people have good voices, honestly. Like, every so often you hear someone who has a really awful voice, but mostly I can’t really differentiate between a good voice and just an okay voice. Except, sometimes I hear someone with a truly angelic or amazing voice, but those are like, vocalist of the generation types.”  
“Do you sing?”  
“I like to sing,” she said with a little laugh. “I don’t think I’m any good though.”  
“What kind of music do you like?”   
She paused in middle of adding cocoa powder to mug to look at him seriously. “Are you asking to see my Spotify playlists?”  
“Can I?” he suddenly found himself eager to know what kind of music this girl listened to. There was something about her easy chatter and childlike charm that made him feel more at ease than he could remember feeling in a long time. She was unique and quirky and he never knew what she was going to say next.  
“Asking to see someone’s Spotify playlist is serious business,” she said gravely.   
“Why is that?” he asked, amused.  
“Music is the language of the soul,” she said, still serious, though her eyes were dancing. “So if you know the music I’m listening to, I’m letting you peek at my soul.”  
He found her seriousness adorable, and it only made him more curious to see her musical preferences. “If it’s as beautiful as the rest of you, I’m sure I’ll love it,” he said.  
“Hey, no cheesy pickup lines,” she objected, handing him a mug of hot chocolate and a plate with a perfectly browned toast. “We’re just friends.”  
“It was a friendly compliment,” he assured her.   
She considered for a second with narrowed eyes and then nodded. “Alright, then, you’re excused,” she said magnanimously. “And if you must know, you’re pretty gorgeous yourself. In a friendly way of course.”  
“Of course.”  
“Now, come and see why we jumped on this apartment,” she said, stepping past him with her own mug and plate in hand. She drew open the sliver spangled curtain at the far end of the living room to reveal a sliding glass door. “Our balcony.”  
The view from the balcony was amazing. The balcony itself was small, just large enough for the two outdoor chairs and a small glass table but it was enclosed waist high in glass so that even sitting on the chairs you could see out over the glittering lights of Manhattan to the Hudson River.  
She put down her plate and cup, curling into one of the lounge chairs. Both were equipped with fluffy throw blankets and she settled in with a contented hum. “I love it up here.”  
“It’s unreal,” he said in awe. It wasn’t very different from the view he had from the floor-to ceiling windows in his loft, but it had never seemed as amazing as it did now.  
He leaned on the glass rail, pulling the Marlboro from behind his ear. “May I?”  
“Go ahead,” she said, sipping her cocoa. “I think I have a pack in the kitchen if you want.”  
“Nah, ‘m good.” He tapped the pocket of his jacket where he had nearly a full pack. “You smoke?”   
“Sometimes,” she shrugged. “Recreationally. Or when I’m really stressed. Zhav and I keep a couple of packs cuz we both like them every so often and we have friends who can’t go without.”  
“Yeah, I’m one of those,” he admitted. “Usually just a few but I can go through two packs a day if I’m stressed out.” He blew a few absent minded smoke rings over the edge before coming to sit down, holding the fag between two fingers. “How about that Spotify playlist?” he asked. “Don’t think I forgot about that.”  
She took her phone out of her pocket, a little hesitantly. “Tell you what, Mr. Z,” she said. “I’ll show you if you show me, yeah?”  
“Sure.” He pulled out his new iPhone and stubbed out the cigarette on the arm of the chair. He typed in his passcode and handed it to her, surprising himself with how comfortable he was. He had never handed his unlocked phone to another person in his life, but he wasn’t even the slightest bit nervous.  
She took his phone but held onto her own. “No judgement,” she warned, biting her lip.  
“When you’re with me no judgement…” he sang absently under his breath.  
She caught the lyric and her face lit up. “Love that song,” she confessed. “Do you listen to Niall’s stuff?”  
“Some,” he said cautiously. He had listened to all of Niall’s songs when they came out, not because it was really his type of music, but because he couldn’t help listening and feeling like a proud older brother. “I think I have a Niall playlist actually.”  
She took a fortifying sip of cocoa and he mirrored her. The drink was hot, rich and sweet and mixed delightfully with the nicotine still swirling in his mouth. “Cocoa’s ace.”  
“Thanks, I bought the mix myself,” she said teasingly. “Here.” She handed him the phone, already open to the Spotify app and then quickly busied herself looking at his phone.   
He opened the first playlist- titled “Stress”- and was surprised to find that it was comprised solely of his songs. Fingers, Flight of the Stars, Talk to Me…he hummed approvingly and opened the next one, titled “Regulation”. This was a mix of his and Harry’s stuff featuring Falling, Sunflower Vol.6 and Two Ghosts alongside Let Me and Dusk Till Dawn. The third playlist, called “Best of the Lads” seemed to be her top pick of One Direction Songs, mainly off the third and fourth albums. He was pleased to see Half a Heart, Spaces and Once in A Lifetime, songs he loved that were often underappreciated.  
The next playlist, called “1D Solo Favs” piqued his interest and he opened it, wondering which of their songs had made it to her favorite list. It was fairly balanced with two or three songs from each himself, Harry, Louis, and Niall. Liam was nowhere to be seen. He approved of her choices for Niall, including Paper Towns and Too Much to Ask, two of the songs that he actually listened to sometimes. For him she had chosen Good Years and Flames, choices that he was burning to ask her about. He looked up from her phone to see her watching him, gnawing anxiously on her lip.  
“I guess your soul speaks One Direction,” he teased.  
She blushed but relaxed, evidently afraid that he’d react badly. “Yeah, I’m pretty hardcore,” she said. “I don’t really listen to much else, to be honest. A little Bruno Mars here and there, maybe some Taylor Swift. But that’s it, really.”  
“So you’re a pop junkie.”  
“I guess I am.”  
“Not into R&B then?” He knew his tone was hopeful, but couldn’t bring himself to care.  
“Well, I like your stuff well enough,” she said. “Though it might just be because you have an amazing voice.”  
He felt himself blush a bit. “Thought you said you don’t know how to pick out good voices,” he reminded her.   
“I said unless they’re angelic, vocalist of the generation type,” she retorted. “Which yours totally is, by the way.”  
“ ‘S not all that-“ he began, but she cut him off.  
“It is,” she said simply. It wasn’t flattery or teasing, or even flirtatious, she was just stating a fact as she saw it, and he knew enough to appreciate that.  
“Thanks, love,” he said. “Means a lot.”  
“Your music tastes are basically what I thought they’d be,” she said after a second’s pause, handing his phone back to him. “A lot of reggae, a little bit of rap, plenty of Chris Brown, Cardi B and Kehlani. Not really my kinda stuff. But I like your Niall playlist- those are my favorites. You don’t really have any of the others.”  
“Why don’t you have any of Liam?” he asked, avoiding the implicit question.  
“Don’t like his music,” she said simply, shrugging. “And I don’t like him enough to want to like it, either.”  
“Hmm.” There was a comfortable pause where they both sampled their toasts before Zayn asked, “Can you give me an honest opinion of my music?”  
“I like some of it a lot,” she said slowly. “As you can tell. I’m like 50/50 on it, to be honest. The songs that I like, I love, and the ones that I don’t, I never listen to. But that’s really how I am with all music, I think. Don’t have a lot of songs that I just like casually. I kinda go all in.” She paused for a minute, then asked, “Can you give me an honest opinion on your music?”  
“I like it,” he said with a shrug, lighting up another cigarette. “That’s why I make it. I don’t really care if people like it or not, I just want to write songs that I think are sick. When I left-“ he swallowed hard and then continued. “When I left the band I promised myself I’d never make music that wasn’t genuinely me again. It was awful.”  
“Sounds like it,” she murmured. “It’s why I could never be in a creative profession; creativity feels like it should be something free, d’you know what I mean? Like, I’d never want to have to be creative to make a living. Art is art, and ya can’t rush it or it takes away from its beauty I think.”  
“Yeah,” he agreed. “But I make music when I want to, when I feel it burning in me. I never make myself write when I don’t feel it. That’s why I don’t give m’self deadlines or anything- I write as it comes.”  
“It’s awesome that you have the financial freedom to do that,” she said gently. “But most artists don’t.”  
“Yeah.”  
The both sipped reflectively for a few quiet minutes, looking out over the lights of the city, each lost in their own thoughts.   
“D’you ever miss it?”  
He didn’t have to ask what she meant. “I miss it,” he said slowly. “But I wouldn’t want to do it anymore. Like, I miss how much fun I used to have, in the first few years, but at this point in my life, I’d never want to do it.”  
“Hmm.”  
He glanced sideways at her. “Did you want me to say I’d go back to the band?”  
“I think they’re missing something without you,” she said. “It took me a really long time before I’d even agree to listen to Made In the AM. But I wouldn’t want you to go back if you were unhappy. Like, I feel like fans sometimes think that artists owe them something, but they don’t realize that their favorite performers are real people who have needs and feeling that have to come first. I think that anyone who would want to you to do something that makes you unhappy because it would make them happy isn’t a real fan of you; they just like the way you make them feel.” She put her empty mug down on the table. “Sorry for the rant, I just really hate how insensitive people can be sometimes.”  
“Yeah,” He said, slightly overwhelmed by how worked up she got on his behalf. “It’s something you just get used to I guess.”  
“Well you shouldn’t have to,” she said fiercely. “It’s not right.”  
“I should hire you to be my PR manager,” he teased, trying to lighten the mood. “You’d protect me from all the bad fans.”  
“I would,” she said with a little laugh. “I wish I could.”   
“I’d have to know your name, though,” he continued, suddenly curious again. “I feel like you know so much about me, and I don’t even know your name.”  
“Well you didn’t tell me your name,” she pointed out. “Or anything about yourself. If you want to Google me, go ahead.”  
“I did see your Spotify though,” he coaxed. “C’mon, once I’ve peeked at your soul it can’t be too much of a stretch to tell me your name. Just your first name, so I can’t Google you even if I wanted to.”  
“Would you want to?” she asked, sounding genuinely curious.  
“Stop changing the subject,” he said, sternly, setting his empty cup beside hers. “C’mon, give me something.”  
“Elsa.”  
“What?”  
“My name is Elsa.”  
“Is it really?”  
“Yes!” she said, slightly indignant. “I wouldn’t lie about that. Also, fun fact, Disney’s Elsa is named after me.”  
“Now you’re lying to me,” he said, laughing.  
“Cross my heart,” she said, leaning forward and widening her eyes earnestly. “John Lasseter is a good friend of my father’s; they grew up together in California. When they were doing sketches for Elsa I modelled for them because I had the right coloring and then he named the character in my honor.”  
“That’s pretty wicked,” he admitted, blowing a smoke ring.  
“Yeah, well, don’t feel too badly,” she said. “I don’t think you’d look as good in blue silk. Though they could’ve modelled Aladdin after you. Prince Zayn.”  
“Never watched Disney much as a kid,” he said. “Superheroes though…I wish I had a superhero named after me. That’d be proper sick.”  
“Marvel or DC?”  
“You know superheroes?” he asked, wide-eyed.  
“Some,” she said. “I’m more Marvel but I’ve always kinda had a thing for Batman. The misunderstood, dark hero. I just liked that he wasn’t as squeaky clean as like, Superman or Captain America. I felt like it made him more sympathetic.”  
“Well Iron Man is pretty much the Batman of Marvel,” he pointed out.  
“Yeah, I dunno,” she said. “I just never really liked Tony Stark. He’s too arrogant for me. Who’s your favorite?”  
“I really like Green Lantern,” he said. “He always seemed the coolest to me.”  
“Good choice,” she said approvingly. And then, almost shyly, “Could I see your ZAP! Tattoo?”  
“Sure, babe.” He struggled for a moment to pull up the sleeve of his leather jacket before giving up and just taking the whole jacket off to show her his right forearm.   
“Society of club zappers,” she murmured under her breath, and he was suddenly reminded how much she knew about him, and how little he knew about her. Usually it made him feel weird to know that people he’d never met knew all the details of his life, but oddly enough he found he didn’t mind that she knew.  
“I miss him a lot,” he found himself saying. “Still.”  
“Don’t you two speak at all?”  
He pulled his jacket back on and sat back, toying with an unlit cigarette. “For a while we didn’t. Now we talk some, but not like we used to. It’s like, I missed out on so much of each other’s’ lives- I missed his mum dying, him becoming a dad, he missed so much that went on for me- it’s just not the same when we talk anymore. We’re not the same innocent partners in crime that we used to be. I miss old Louis.”  
“We’re not who we used to be…” she sang softly, and a grimace flitted unconsciously over his face as he recognized the lyric. “Would you rather I not mention him?” she asked gently. “Cuz I won’t if you don’t want me to.”  
“ ‘S complicated,” he muttered, lighting up. She waited patiently, bumming cigarette off of him with a questioning eyebrow. He nodded distractedly, lighting it for her and watching her take slow, calm drags.  
“I think he hates me,” he said finally. “I think he feels like I did him dirty.”  
She said nothing, just waited, wreathed in smoke that made her look even more ethereal.  
“He wanted out also. He was feeling stifled in the band; not musically, he was ok with that but personally. He didn’t like the image that Management gave him as the womanizer and he wanted to be free to be Harry- like the way he is now. He wanted to wear outrageous clothes and paint his nails and give out pride flags and whatever else he fancied.  
“He was burnt out of the boyband lifestyle- he hated being on the road. He had been pushing for a hiatus since late 2014 and I guess when I left he saw it as a betrayal because he wanted to leave so badly, and I got to have what he didn’t.”  
He put out the fag and lit another, pulling in deep drags of nicotine to calm himself. “I did what I had to do,” he said almost pleadingly. “I was coming apart at the seams; I needed out so bad. I didn’t do it to hurt him, but it’s like he can’t forgive me for having freedom when he was still trapped.”  
“Even though he got out a few months later,” she said quietly.  
“Yeah.”  
They smoked in silence for a minute, and then she put a gentle hand on his arm. “I had a really close friend in highschool,” she said, seemingly apropos of nothing. “We were both extremely gifted, sailed our way through school without ever studying for an exam, competing for highest in the class with perfect marks. We were too smart for school and everyone knew it, and my dream was to skip out and start university early. I was older than most of my grade and I always felt like I was behind and I desperately wanted to skip.” She had smoked the fag all the way down to the filter and he silently lit another for her, dreading where the story was going.  
“Dana took early admissions to university and skipped senior year,” she said in a hollow voice. “She left me there, went off to live the dream we’d both had. And she didn’t tell me she was leaving until admissions were closed so I couldn’t apply.” She took a shaky breath and he squeezed her hand lightly. “It wasn’t her fault; the school didn’t let her tell anyone because they didn’t want me to skip out as well. But I haven’t really spoken to her since; when we’re both home on break I avoid her like the plague.  
“She didn’t do anything wrong,” Elsa stressed. “She did what was best for her to move her own life forward and to get out of being stuck in highschool for another year of frustration and boredom. But it didn’t change the fact that she left me behind, and that she went to live our dream without me.”  
She turned to face Zayn completely, her face soft and sympathetic. “It’s not the same,” she said. “I know it’s not the same. But maybe Harry feels the same way about you that I feel about Dana. Just hurt, but hurt that gets left too long turns into anger because it’s an easier emotion to handle.”  
The words hung in the smoky air between them for a long time. Zayn stood up and paced to the railing, leaning on the glass to look down at the street below. Finally, he asked quietly, hating the note of pleading in his voice, “If Dana called you to apologize, would you listen?”  
She hesitated. “I don’t know if it would ever be the same,” she said gently, as though she was afraid her words would break him. “But it would be a start. If she acknowledged the pain that she caused me, it would definitely be start.”  
He said nothing and after a moment she got up to stand next to him, leaning her head comfortingly on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her, just enjoying her warmth, and the feeling of having someone next to him. He wanted this moment to last, dreaded the inevitable when it would break and he would go back to his flat that always felt too big and quiet for one person.  
“Stay with me tonight?” she whispered, almost as though she was reading his mind. “It’s been weird to sleep in an empty apartment since Zhav left.”  
“ ‘Course babe,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound too eager.  
She sighed happily. “Come, let’s go to bed. It’s late.”  
He followed her inside, carrying their plates and mugs which she quickly stacked in the dishwasher. “Er, I guess I’ll take the couch, then?” he asked. “I don’t want to sleep in your flatmate’s bed without asking her.”  
“She’d be fine with it,” Elsa assured him. “But…” she looked at him shyly. “Wouldyousleepinmybedwithme?” she asked all in a rush. He must have looked startled because she added quickly, “Not like that! I just wanted to cuddle with someone…”  
“Yeah,” he said quietly, not sure why he was agreeing to this. All he knew is that he’d do anything to make this girl happy, and that was all he wanted. He didn’t want to sleep with her and he didn’t even want to kiss her- all he wanted was to see her smile.  
“K good.” The smile was back, tinged with nervousness. “I’ll just go get changed, yeah? My room is the first door on the right.”  
“Meet you there.”  
Her room was small, and sparsely furnished. A twin bed was pushed against one wall, a low dresser against the other. A small desk piled with textbooks and notebooks stood under the room’s window. Her linen was grey and white with red and orange accent pillows that matched the sheer red curtains. He kicked off his boots and perched awkwardly on the end of the bed until she bounced back into the room barefoot, wearing leggings and dark blue tank top.  
“Take off your jacket, at least,” she laughed. “I don’t have any clothes for you to sleep in, but you can take off your jeans and I’m ok if you wanna take off your t-shirt as well.”  
She deliberately turned her back and busied herself straightening her books while he peeled off his jeans, leaving him in his t-shirt and boxers. He elected to leave the t-shirt on and was grateful when she switched off the light and climbed under the covers.  
“Now come cuddle me,” she demanded.  
“Yes Princess.” He laughed and slid under the blanket next to her. The bed was narrow, but he’d definitely been in worse. She curled into him immediately, laying her head on his chest. He automatically carded his fingers through the soft blonde hair, noticing that she had a tattoo of a snowflake at the nape of her neck. Her hair smelled like something fruity, and he felt himself relax. If he closed his eyes he could almost think he was back on the tour bus, holding Niall on one of his homesick nights.  
“You’re a good cuddler,” she murmured sleepily. “If you ever change your mind about music you could be a professional cuddler.”  
“Is that a real job?” he asked skeptically.  
“Yeah, they make like $100 an hour,” she yawned. “Just to cuddle people platonically.”  
“I don’t think I’d want to do that,” he said. “I only like to cuddle people that I like. I wouldn’t want to cuddle strangers.”  
“ ‘M flattered that I made the cut,” she said. “Though I could remind you that we were strangers a few hours ago.”  
It was true, but it didn’t feel that way. Zayn felt safer with her than he did with almost anyone else, except maybe Ant and Danny. “You’re just special.”  
“Better believe it big guy,” she said, sounding pleased. She was quiet for a few minutes and he thought she had fallen asleep, but then she said, “Zayn?”  
“Yeah?”  
“I have to go into work at 7 tomorrow but I’ll be back by 9:30, k? Don’t leave; I’ll make you breakfast when I come back.”  
“Love, I don’t get up before 11 on a Saturday,” he said, dead serious. “Breakfast is not a Saturday meal. Let me take you to brunch, yeah?”  
“Ooh, brunch. How very posh of you Mr. Malik.”  
He tickled her in reproach and she giggled, squirming away from her fingers. “Where do you work at 7 on a Saturday anyways?”  
“ ‘M a kickboxing instructor,” she said. “I give two Saturday morning classes and it pays for my groceries. “ She yawned widely. “But now I really have to go to sleep or I’ll fall flat on my face when I try to do roundhouse kicks. I hate roundhouse kicks.”  
He smiled fondly into her hair, imagining her as a workout instructor, bouncing around like the ball of energy that she was. “Shush then and sleep.”  
She was quiet for a few minutes and the she asked in a small voice, “You won’t leave?”  
“I’ll be with you from dusk till dawn,” he promised sleepily. “Or dusk till brunch I guess in this case.”  
That won a giggle from her. “K good. Night Zee.”  
“Night Princess.”  
She fell asleep almost immediately after that, fingers clenched in his t-shirt and one leg slung over his possessively. Gently he unwound his shirt from her grasp, smoothing out her clenched hands into a more relaxed position.  
“Dusk till dawn,” he hummed under his breath, letting sleep finally take him.


End file.
